Schadenfreude
by cheshirecat101
Summary: Moriarty has kidnapped John, unbeknownst to Sherlock and for reasons unknown to John. In the meantime, the detective has been searching for the shooter of 20 hostages and all of the evidence is pointing to John. Sherlock faces internal turmoil at the fact it could be John, though he searches for another explanation. One-sided/coerced Jim/John and eventual Johnlock.
1. Moriality

The gun was cold in his hands. Cold, heavy, sleek, and above all, guilty. It was a nice gun, new, and he had the feeling that had never been fired before. This thought made him distinctly uneasy, for some reason.

His hands were still tied by the zip tie, forcing him to hold the gun with both hands. The two together made it hard to move agilely and he knew he didn't have a chance of turning the gun on the man behind him before he was shot down. So he kept it trained on the ground, his grip tight. He didn't look nervous or anxious, wasn't shaking, his military training having prepared him for things that weren't quite this but were equally horrible. His back was stiff, his muscles tight, spine and shoulders straight as he stayed tense and alert, waiting for even one opportunity to break out. But he knew it wasn't coming, he knew that he had no choice this time. The other 20 hostages were staring at him, every single one of them silently pleading with him to shoot anyone else but them.

"_Lucky number 21, Johnny boy…"_

He should have known that this was all arranged, that someone was behind it, that it wasn't just a coincidence. But when the armed men had come in and told everyone in the grocery store to put their hands up and get down on the ground, he'd thought that this was just his bloody luck again, another chance circumstance. The thought that this had to do with Sherlock did cross his mind, but most of his enemies preferred to work quietly, subtly, under the radar. Except for one.

"_We're going to conduct a little psychology experiment, Johnny. See how MOR-AAAL-I-TY works."_

He was fighting to keep his breathing even, a little hitch now and then interrupting it. He forced himself to relax, telling himself that this was better than the alternative. There was no other way. He was startled as he felt arms wrap around him from behind, one going around his waist and the other going against his right arm to guide his arms straight, pointing the gun at the hostages and causing a ripple of fearful cries to go through them. He'd instantly tensed, but the man behind him positively giggled at his discomfort and purred in his ear, "Come on, John, this should be _easy _for you, you've killed men before, Daddy knows you've killed men before."

John didn't answer, his jaw tightening. He didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how conflicted he was about this, how much it was going to hurt. "And what if I just kill myself instead?" he asked, his voice firmer than he'd thought he was able to manage.

The man chuckled. "And what would be the fun in that?" he asked, his voice lifting, then falling at the word 'fun' in a half sing song. "You're the _special _one John, lucky number 21. So you're going to kill one, or I'm going to kill them all!" His voice was full of manic glee but dropped into a serious, superficially somber tone. "One by one in front of you. Very sloooooowly. It's a funny little moral dilemma, isn't it? Kill one, or let everyone die. But this should be so easy for you, you've killed before, you can do it again."

"That was different," John said numbly. A slight tremble was threatening his hands so he adjusted his grip, the other man's eyes darting to the motion. John felt lips brush against his ear as the other man smiled and said, his voice lilting, "Oh, don't be like _that_, dear Johnny. We all know the meaning of collateral damage. You killed in the army on orders and you would kill again for Sherly in the name of _LOVE_." He spat the word with no lack of disdain in his voice. "You _liked _killing, so for Daddy, do it again, or I'll take care of it for you. Just. One. Shot."

John closed his eyes, his head shaking slightly of its own volition. It wasn't a denial, he wasn't saying he wouldn't, he just needed a second, just one second to think about this. Where the bloody hell was Sherlock? Better question, how had no one seen this coming? There had been silence for months, a lack of activity, a lull that usually signaled Sherlock's nemesis was up to no good. This was his no good, though John wasn't sure why he was always the one who had to suffer for Sherlock. Well, he did know why, but he wasn't even sure how this would actually hurt Sherlock in the long term. This wasn't as direct as the usual crimes, didn't seem as big a part of the game going on that John was too out of his depth to be playing in. He was being forced to play now.

The arm against his own dropped but the one around his waist remained and John felt the hand of the dropped arm go to his hip, the grip firm but not too tight. It sickened him, really, but then again maybe that was just the nauseous dread sloshing around his stomach at the feeling that yes, this was really happening, and that in just a few seconds he was going to kill one of these hostages at the behest of a sociopath because he had no other choice. The hand on his hip squeezed him gently and the owner of it said, "Now, dear," and John opened his eyes and fired. There were a few screams and a thud as a body hit the floor and John lowered the gun, his hands beginning to tremble as he closed his eyes again, trying not to see his own handiwork.

"Oh how _boring_, you shot the oldest one," the man behind him said, resting his chin on John's shoulder. "Typical human nature, it's so pre-dic-tab-le…"

He wanted him to shut up just shut up just for once in his goddamn life shut up but when he did it was almost worse, as he laid a soft, chaste kiss on John's cheek and said, "But still, good boy."

The last two words were a silky purr and John had to restrain himself from shuddering, calling on all his strength and training to stay where he was and not react to the psychopath. There was no purpose to this, no rhyme or reason, no way that this led back to Sherlock in any way, shape, or form, Sherlock was peripherally involved in this if at all and this had just been John on his own, so what had been the point? He wanted to turn around and scream at him but restrained himself as the man took the gun out of his hands, holding it by the end of the handle between two fingers, as if it was dirty, and handing it off to one of his henchman to be disposed of. Both hands free again, he wrapped his arms around John's waist, leaning forward to hiss into his ear, "Feels good, doesn't it? Just like old times? How does it feel—" here he leant closer, his voice lifting again "—to kill someone who did nothing wrong? Hmmmm?"

"What's the game, Moriarty?" John asked wearily, knowing his hands were trembling slightly where they hung loose against the hands of Moriarty around his waist.

"What game?" He could hear the predatory smile in his voice.

"The game. _The _game, the bloody damn game you've been playing with Sherlock for months, the one that led you to strap me into a bomb vest, this has to be part of it. What was the point of having me do this, what are you trying to do to Sherlock using me?"

"I'm not doing anything to _Sherlock_, he's been so…so…" his voice dropped again "—DOMEStic recently. I did this for you."

John felt his blood turn to ice water in his veins, his blue eyes popping open again. He actually turned to look at Moriarty, though Moriarty retained his grip on him, and saw the sweet as poisoned candy smile on the other man's lips.

"Oh don't look so sur-_prised_, Johnny boy, not everything's about Sherlock. Although I'm sure he'll be thrown into a _fit _by this one. I'm going to make sure that it looks like you did this one on your own, and he'll be thrown for a complete loop." The 'p' popped in his mouth and he grinned at John, showing slightly pointed teeth before he retrieved the gum in his mouth from the side of his cheek and began chewing it again, a scent of fruit drifting to John. "Especially when you disappear without a trace. Sic 'em, boys," he said in a lilting sing song, and John screamed as the hired thugs opened fire on the rest of the hostages. He fought like hell against Moriarty but there was the pinch of a needle in his neck and then everything went black, and he slipped away to the sight of Moriarty blowing a kiss to him before he was gone.


	2. Adapt or Die

**Hey everyone, thank you so much for following this and for the reviews, reviews are love! Here's chapter two with chapter three already in the works. Hope you enjoy. :)**

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_Jealousy_. That white hot little snake that slithered into his stomach and nested there, occasionally digging venom dripping fangs into his skin as a reminder of its existence. He'd started this because he was jealous. Not jealous of Sherlock, not jealous of John, but jealous of both of them. Jealous of that closeness they had, that relationship.

Because it didn't matter if John's love was unrequited—and oh, Sherly _knew _what he was doing to him, the man would have had to be an idiot not to see the way John looked at him—they still had that closeness, that easy way about them that was obvious in their every interaction. The smiles, the laughs, the easy conversation and touches and simple, daily interactions that came so easily and naturally to them. He wanted that. He wanted those.

Oh, he had Sebastian, of course, but that wasn't even relatively the same relationship, nor did he want it to be that way. He just wanted to steal that closeness that Sherlock had with Dr. Watson, wanted that for himself so he could take it and break it and give Sherlock a broken toy in return, a dog that no longer listened to its master because it had gone deaf, slowly, painfully deaf. Because, after all, Dr. John Watson had to be something more than ordinary to attract the attention of the famous detective. Others came and went, flitted through his life, but no one had captured his favor and attention like John had, which meant there had to be something special about him, something unique that couldn't be revealed through CCTV footage or tapped walls or surveillance photos. Jim Moriarty wasn't the type of man to overlook something, but he also knew that there were certain things that had to be observed in person, and John was one of them. Not that he wanted him, particularly, because as of now he was just a way to Sherlock, just another, _better_ game to play that could and probably would hurt Sherlock more than all of the others. He'd seen it first hand, how the thrill of the conquest had vanished from Sherlock's eyes as soon as John had come into the game, at the pool the first time he revealed himself. Innocent lives could be lost and Sherlock would still play the game because, yes, he was saving others, but also just for the joy of the game itself, but as soon as John was threatened he was done, it was over, he wanted to have the puzzle solved and finished so John was out of the sniper's scope once again. It was fascinating, really. He'd thought Sherlock to be almost identical to himself, which meant no feelings beyond slight affection for certain _ordinary _people, but Sherlock had revealed otherwise, had developed that closeness with John, had revealed his _HEART_. Well, Jim was going to burn it right out of him. He was going to destroy that relationship between them, because he jealously wanted that closeness for himself. Just wanted to see what it was like, really, having ordinary people around to alleviate his boredom in ways that didn't involve him shooting them. And maybe he'd want to keep the doctor for himself. He'd never had a pet, and certainly never one so loyal. If he could just turn that loyalty away from Sherlock to himself…well, then, some fairytales had to end with the villain triumphing over the hero and getting the girl, right?

xxx

He thought for one wonderful second that he was home when he woke up. Lying on the couch at 221B Baker Street, a suspicion that only seemed to be confirmed when he looked around further and saw the old familiar furniture, each piece having a separate meaning and memory attached to it. Then, a line of sight interrupted: Moriarty, sitting in an armchair and calmly sipping tea.

He tried to get up; he tried to run; he tried to scream. But he was dizzy, light-headed, and even the slight movement of trying to lift his head sent him reeling again.

"How are we feeling, darling?"

God he hated the sound of that voice. It was currently a smug, self-satisfied drawl, which he supposed was better than other tones it could have taken. He didn't answer, closing his eyes again in an effort to regain himself. What was in his system? This was too strong, he was too tired…

"Where am I?" he managed to ask after a minute.

Moriarty giggled. "It's divine, isn't it? Took me _ages_, but I had enough surveillance to get everything down to the last detail. It's an absolutely _per_-fect replica of your flat. Gorgeous, isn't it?"

John furrowed his brow over his closed eyes. There was a faint headache lingering as well, and the words were getting stuck in the honey-sticky muddle of his brain and only half going through.

"It's accurate you'll find, down to the very—last—detail." There was a clink as he set down his tea cup. "Well, except _ooooone_. It's missing something very important, can you tell me what that is, John?"

John shook his head. "No, what's that?"

"It's missing a Sherlock! Of course, I don't _want _a Sherlock in this flat, so I'll have to fill in for him."

John's eyes flew open and he was halfway to sitting up when the dizziness hit him again and he had to freeze in place, his head swimming and bile crawling up the back of his throat. He closed his eyes again, trying to soothe his own senses, and when he opened them he saw Moriarty sitting in a chair facing him and smiling.

It took him a minute before he could ask, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Johnny boy, don't be so dreadfully dull." Dreadfully was split into sing song syllables and he smiled at John after saying it, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated expression of exasperation. "Surely Sherly would have figured this out by now." He giggled a bit at his own joke and continued, "I kidnapped you. Took you to an exact replica of your flat. Now I'm going to be the Sherlock to your Dr. Watson._ Why_?"

John thought for a minute through the honey haze and then said, "Because you're trying to replace him."

"Ooh, very close! And why would I do that?"

"Because you want me to act like you're Sherlock." His heart was sinking with every word and he clenched his hands into tight fists to stop them from trembling, his knuckles turning white with the force. He wanted to say so much more, wanted to scream at him that he understood the difference between the two, that he could never replace Sherlock, but he was limiting himself to only the necessary words, knowing how unbalanced the other man was.

Moriarty swirled his spoon dreamily around his tea and then lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip, nodding repeatedly. "Very good, John," he said when he was done. "You're going to live here, with me, and we're going to play a fun little game where I'm Sherlock and you're John and there's just a _little_ less sexual tension than usual."

John swallowed thickly, his throat feeling dry. He didn't even have the energy to be offended, at this point. "Why?" he asked.

"You're the doctor, dear, don't ask the detective questions."

John bristled instantly, forgetting to be afraid, and snapped, "If you want me to treat you like you're Sherlock then you'll do well to remember that I'm not some loyal little puppy nipping after his heels all day. We're partners in it, he and I, and I will ask whatever bloody questions I please."

Silence; he thought he was going to be shot right then and there. Then Moriarty laughed, clapping his hands together. "Oh John, you're truly not a disappointment, are you?" he said, and then his smile dropped as sudden as oil off a slick surface. "But I'm not quite Sherlock, am I? So we'll follow a few different ruuuuuuules. One being that you can't leave the flaa-aat! Two, of course, that you don't have any internet access, no contact with the outside world. I do expect you to blog, as usual, but we'll save those for files, I think." He exaggerated the 'k' sound, and grinned at John, a piranha's smile but with those big eyes he had. _What big eyes you have…all the better to see you with, my dear…_

Oh, he was feeling loopy again, wasn't he? There wasn't enough oxygen in the room anymore. He struggled to completely sit up, the psychopath watching him with an amused expression, and when his head finally stopped reeling he said, "And what's the endgame then? What do you get out of all of this?" Because clearly he'd put a lot of work into this, '_ages_', so there had to be some way to trace it back to Sherlock, some connection here. Of course John was already being framed for a crime, but they both knew that was a temporary distraction that Sherlock would eventually dismiss and go after John again. But then what?

"The pleasure of your company, John," Moriarty said, and John was about to laugh when he realized with a chill that he wasn't smiling. Moriarty set his tea cup down and stood up, brushing the wrinkles out of his suit, and walked over to where John was on the couch. John shrank away from him, his hands behind him bracing his weight against the couch, but Moriarty just folded his arms across the edge of the couch, leaning forward over him, standing on his tiptoes in a way that made him look absurdly childish but at the same time menacing to John.

"I meant," John said, his voice suddenly quiet, "how does this help you in your game with Sherlock?"

"Oh John, you're so silly!" Moriarty said, half in a breathy falsetto. He leant closer to John, who found to his dismay that he had no more couch to escape on, and said, "Why does everything have to lead back to Sherlock? Can't I just play with _youuuuu _for a little while?" He tried on a pout. "Don't you want to play with me, Johnny boy?"

John fought to control his reaction but he knew Moriarty was picking up on the important details—increased heart rate, shallow breathing, flared nostrils—and when John swung he simply jumped agilely back, easily evading him. The swing, however, had knocked John right back into senseless dizziness and by the time he came to, he was back against the couch and Moriarty was nowhere to be seen. A note had been pinned to his jumper that said, 'Be home at six, darling. I'll bring dinner, you make drinks :) '. John unpinned it, read it, cursed, and then tried to get up. This time he managed it, albeit by moving painfully slowly, and paused when he had his feet on the ground, still sitting on the couch. His head was pounding painfully and he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

Well this was a bloody mess. He laughed slightly at himself for this thought. Yeah, mess was one way to put it, and bloody was another. He felt weak at the thought of spending even a second more in this flat that was his but wasn't, with a man who was Sherlock but wasn't. They may have been similar, but the differences far outweighed the similarities. Sherlock wouldn't do this. Sherlock wouldn't kill innocents. Sherlock wouldn't lock him away in some tower like a princess awaiting rescue. But Moriarty intended to play the hero, not the villain in this one, so where did that leave John?  
He got up, unsteady on his feet, and checked the door that would have led downstairs in the real apartment; locked, and definitely reinforced with steel. So Moriarty had made a few upgrades as well, John had told Sherlock they needed better doors before. He wondered how much Moriarty had heard. How much of them he'd seen.

The windows, surprisingly enough, opened, but just a few inches away was a brick wall, close enough to touch and not enough space for even a mouse to slip through, let alone John. He shut the window again and continued checking, but everything was the same. Doors usually leading somewhere other than closed rooms were locked and reinforced and the windows either didn't open or opened to brick walls. But other than those security measures, every inch of the flat was exactly the same. It was astonishing, really. He opened all the drawers, looked underneath beds, and every last detail seemed accurate down to the underwear in his dresser. He really didn't want to know how Moriarty had gotten that detail correct. Of course, his gun and any other potential weapons were absent, but his laptop was there—he was sure that it was actually his personal one because otherwise Moriarty had far too much time on his hands to recreate every last scratch and nick—and he opened it, only to find that, of course, he had no internet access. Bloody brilliant. He closed it again and checked the time. 4:42. He still had some time. Time to weigh the options.

There were only two, so it wasn't hard; either submit and play Moriarty's little game until he found another option, or risk the psychopath's ire as well as potentially death by refusing to participate. So maybe it was best to play along, at least for now. Sherlock must be out there looking for him, he knew he wouldn't be that quick to accept John as the culprit in the hostage shooting. He knew better, no matter what the evidence said. There it was, then. He just had to survive for long enough for Sherlock to get him.

He had no illusions about this, either. He knew he was being watched now, as always, that Moriarty had probably watched his escape attempts and laughed, like John was a frantic bird trapped indoors with a homicidal cat. Well, when the cat's away…

He sat back down in front of his computer, opened it, and started typing. He was alarmed when, around 5:30, the sound of a phone vibrating heavily against something went through the apartment. He immediately sprang to his feet, searching for it frantically, hoping beyond hope that maybe Moriarty had slipped up, maybe he'd left John's phone in here, maybe he'd dropped another one, or one of his men had, or something had slipped through—

But as soon as he saw it he knew. It was a tiny little phone, meant for kids, he was certain, and the number on the screen said, 'DADDY'. He sighed heavily and answered it with, "Yes?"

"Oh, honey, did you _really _think I'd slip up that easily?"

John chose not to respond to that, saying instead, "Why are you calling? I got your note."

"I know you did, I saw. I see you decided to stay, then."  
"I really don't have a choice in the matter, do I?"

He laughed, John wincing slightly at the sound over the phone line. "Nooooo, but I like to pretend you stayed for me. I'll prove a much better Sherlock given a little time, dear, you'll see. I'm calling because I'll be home early and I noticed you neglected to even THINK about drinks."

John bit back a retort about not making him a drink because he wasn't a fifties housewife, pausing for a few seconds to control his thoughts. "What would you like me to make?" he asked. "I don't even know what's in the kitchen. Or what you drink."

"Hmmm, what are you in the mood for, Johnny?"

"The strongest thing you have."

Moriarty laughed again and John wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge. "You should find some grapefruit juice in the fridge and some vodka in the freezer. Make two Greyhounds. And don't nip vodka, I'd like you to be at least semi-conscious through dinner!" This last part was in a lilting tone and then the line went dead and John immediately tried to dial Sherlock. A password request popped up and he cursed, motioning throwing the phone in his anger but not letting go. After a second he tried the texts instead and found the same thing. If he wanted to text or call Moriarty, that was easy, but anyone else required a password. He was on lockdown, like a child. He tossed the phone onto the couch and went into the kitchen, getting the vodka and grapefruit juice. He was tempted to get trashed, just to disobey his captor, but he knew being drunk around Moriarty was a terrible idea so he stuck to making the drinks. It was only a few minutes before he heard:

"Lucy, I'm hoooooome!"

The shutting of a door and then the click of locks being put back in place, and John steeled himself and came out of the kitchen. He nearly dropped the glass in his hand when he saw Moriarty; he no longer wore his expensive suit, but rather was dressed almost _exactly _like Sherlock—long black coat, purple scarf wrapped around his neck, and revealed when he took those off, a white button up shirt with no tie and a black suit. He smiled when he saw John almost do a physical double take and smoothly stepped forward to take his drink from him, saying, "Thank you, John," before kissing his cheek and moving past him to set his bags of food down on the kitchen counter. John stared after him for a minute, stock still. He even smelled somewhat like Sherlock. How did—but—that wasn't—he couldn't—how did he—

John sat down numbly in the nearest armchair, his mind trying to sort through too many things at once. He was startled when Moriarty came back and nudged his arm with a glass, handing him his own drink, a double of the one he'd handed Moriarty when he came in. He was startled further when the other man put his hands on either arm of the chair and leaned close to him with a smile, getting uncomfortably far into his personal space.

"I'd suggest you drink that, it looks like you could use a drink," the psychopath said, his voice low enough that John had to, unfortunately, lean forward to hear him. "You look like you've seen a _ghost_."

"H-How much do you intend to become Sherlock, Moriarty?" John asked, his voice faltering slightly despite his best efforts.

Moriarty smiled and leant forward to whisper in his ear, his lips brushing slightly again the shell of John's ear and sending a slight shiver through him, "I intend to _become _him, John, all of him, at least as far as you're concerned." His voice was barely a murmur and John quickly took a gulp of his drink. "I'm going to make you believe I _AM_ him, and then…well, what would you do with Sherlock if you had the opportunity?"

He pulled back enough to look at John, licking his lips, and John thought his heart was going to just beat its way out of his chest and fall to the floor between them. There was a tense silence between them, both waiting for a move from the other, and then suddenly a tinny pop song kicked in and Moriarty straightened up, pulling his phone out of his pocket. It was Bruno Mars's "Locked Out of Heaven", and he waited just long enough for it to get to the line 'Cause your sex takes me to paradise', giving John a very lascivious wink before picking up.

"What is it, Seb, I'm a little busy!" he said in a sing song, then frowned and walked into the other room to continue the conversation. John had just breathed a sigh of relief when he popped back in, covering the mouthpiece to say, "Oh, and John? Call me Jim."

He smiled and went back into the other room and John stayed frozen in place, trying to reconcile what was going on right now. This was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought it was going to be.


	3. London Is Burning

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Sorry chapter three took so long, this one was tough to write for some reason. Thank you so much for everyone who's been reading and following and especially reviewing! Sorry if I don't reply to reviews, I usually don't know what to say beyond thank you so much! But keep reviewing and I'll try to be better about replying for next chapter. Also, on a sidenote, if anyone is interested in rping Johniarty please let me know because it helps me get into character for my writing and there are so few of us out there. Hope you enjoy!**

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He'd set the apartment on fire. He hadn't meant to. Well, that was a lie, he had meant to do it, but he hadn't really thought about it much beforehand. He'd just felt a deep, burning rage start in him that could only be quenched by fire and then his hands had just started working of their own accord and then Jim's clothes were burning and then he was sitting in an armchair, waiting for Jim to come home. He knew he was being monitored, he knew Jim knew the second he started the fire, he knew it was only a matter of time before he came in and he really didn't care what the consequences were, at this point. It'd been done. The apartment was burning.

He'd only been there about a week, and every second had been agony. Every second worrying about Sherlock, worrying about the case he knew the detective was working on. He wasn't concerned about people believing he'd killed those hostages, he was concerned about _Sherlock _believing he'd killed them. Not that he thought Sherlock would, because of course Sherlock could figure out the truth, but he was so afraid deep down inside that Jim had outdone himself this time and there was no alternative. The lie was laid out plain to see. Sherlock would always look for the truth underneath. So why did he feel so sick and dizzy when he thought about it? It was his own anxiety. Certainly.

Jim had been replacing his wardrobe. It was subtle at first, starting with his pants, then his socks, then on to bigger things like his sweaters. Shirts. Trousers. Shoes. Finally he was left with no choice in his wardrobe, surrounded by cashmere sweaters and silk shirts and Italian leather shoes and he hated every fine piece of clothing he was forced to wear. It was just another sign of Jim owning him that he had to live with. And living with Jim was hell. He still dressed like Sherlock, and meanwhile had completely adopted his mannerisms and acted just like him in front of John, driving John nearly to the point of screaming at him in anger that he WASN'T. FUCKING. SHERLOCK.

But he stopped himself, and played along with his game. Because James Moriarty was a dangerous animal and John wasn't sure what he would do if threatened. So he stayed. And played along. And stopped himself from screaming. But he'd had too much today, it was all too much, and when Jim kissed his cheek—a habit he'd developed that John definitely did NOT like—and told him he looked "absolutely _diviiiine_" in his new clothes before leaving for the day, he decided he was going to burn down the entire apartment.

The books were first. The pages were good for starting the fire when combined with matches and some vodka from the kitchen. Next were Jim's clothes, the fire already growing in strength and size, and it didn't take much more for it to leap from Jim's bed to the carpet and then he returned to the front room, sat down in an armchair, and opened today's paper while he waited. The paper nearly slipped out of his fingers when he saw the article title, 'HOSTAGE SHOOTING REMAINS UNSOLVED: HOLMES ON THE CASE'. No. No. No. Yes? Maybe it was a good thing. It was unsolved. The article itself gave no information, just rehashed the supposed "facts" of the case. 20 hostages dead, SIG Sauer P226 used—standard issue in the British Militia in Afghanistan, oh Moriarty was clever wasn't he—security footage unavailable. Lovely. Bloody lovely.

The smoke had started to get to him by now and he resisted the urge to cough as it tickled the back of his throat. Only a little while longer. Maybe he'd die of smoke inhalation before Jim got to him, that'd be a lark. Or tragic. He'd rather think of it as ironic, really. Living with a psychopath for a week but dying of smoke inhalation from a fire he himself had set would certainly be ironic. He almost wanted to laugh at that. But instead he closed the paper, folded it, and creased it so it looked unread, a habit from the numerous complaints Sherlock—and, come to think of it, Jim—had made to him about badly folded newspapers. _"Ruins my concentration, John."_ Not that Sherlock even read them often, anyway.

The door opened and his back stiffened though he tried to relax it again. He was ready for this. He had prepared himself for it, even. And then the Wolf came slinking in. Honestly, Jim looked _bored_ more than anything, dressed in Westwood for his business meetings for the day, his hands in his pockets as he casually strolled into the apartment like nothing was wrong. It unsettled John.

"Dear, dear, _dear _John, didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with matches when Daddy isn't home?" he asked, looking at John. There was a smile on his lips but it didn't reach his eyes. The eyes were predatory.

John cleared his throat, smoke catching at his lungs. "I wasn't playing," he answered, blue eyes steady as he looked at him.

Jim smiled, slightly, drifting to the other, empty armchair and sitting on the arm, crossing his legs. "Then what were you doing, Johnny boy?" he asked, and the smile was gone when he looked at John again. "Destroying my good works? I spent so much time on this, I don't think you UNDERSTAND!" His voice had slipped into deep, dark anger, the Irish brogue coming out more strongly along with it, and John understood in one moment of clarity that he could very well murder him right now and that he did, in fact, want to. Or at least wanted to hurt him. But then again, he'd understood that from the beginning. It was hard to misunderstand someone who'd strapped a bomb to him.

John sat quietly, holding Jim's gaze steadily. Steady. Sure. Confidence. Then, a slight change in Jim's gaze, a shift into cunning from anger. "But it's al_riiiiight_," Jim said with a soft smile, standing up again and going slowly towards John. Step by step. Like a cat determined not to scare a mouse. "Just say you're sorry, honey, and Daddy will make it better," he purred, putting his hands on either arm of John's chair and leaning close to him. John didn't move, determined not to be intimidated by him this time, but he found a burning in Jim's eyes very different from anger and averted his gaze, afraid if he looked at it for too long he'd start trembling. Jim put a hand on his chin and forced the doctor to look at him again, his voice honey sweet as he said, "And since you're so unhappy _here_, we can go to _MY _flat instead!" He smiled and John felt his heart stop. Alone. With Jim. In Jim's personal flat.

"We don't have to do that," he said. He could feel the heat of the fire even though it hadn't quite reached the sitting room yet. "You wouldn't do that. Too much of a risk of me finding out something you don't want me to know."

Jim shifted closer to John, putting one knee on the chair between John's legs, immediately prompting the feeling in John that he should snap them shut again, and leant down to whisper in sing-song with a smile in John's ear, "Where's the risk if you're never going to leave?" He nipped John's earlobe with his teeth and John winced and tried to pull away, but Jim's hand on his chin was firmly holding him in place, the other hand bracing his weight against the chair. "You see, my dear, it doesn't matter what you do to me, or my _things_, because at the end of the day you're trapped here, with me, and I can do _WHATEVER _I want with you." John opened his mouth to protest and at the intake of breath Jim's hand suddenly shot down to John's throat, cutting him off mid-breath and choking him. John reacted instinctively, moving to hit him, and Jim slid his knee farther up between John's legs, stopping short of anything vital but causing John to stop in his attack. John clutched at Jim's tie instead, trying to get him to stop without violence, and after a few seconds Jim relaxed his grip and John breathed in deep gulps of smoky air.

Jim pulled back to look at him again, his smile gone, and after a minute John dared to say, "I'm sorry." Jim instantly broke out into an allover pleased-as-punch smile, removing his hand from John's chin and standing up again, brushing down the front of his suit.

"Good, Johnny boy, I'm _soooo _pleased. Not with the fire, of course, you'll be repaying me for that later, but at least you're learning. At least you didn't do something bo-_ring_, like try to run away," he said, 'boring' separated into two sing-song syllables. "Anything but boring…" His eyes trailed, slowly, meticulously, down John's entire form, and John found himself crossing his legs instinctually. Jim smiled, his eyes flashing back up to John's again, and beckoned for John to come closer. John repressed a sigh, his entire body rebelling at the thought of going towards him, but he knew he had to, and so he got up and crossed to Jim, who pulled out his phone to make a call. John didn't fight Jim's men when they zip tied his hands, or when they blindfolded him, or when they led him into the back of a car. Now wasn't the time for his fight, anyway. He had to wait.

xxx

Hardly into the flat. One bed. His hands still tied behind him. Jim's lips pressed against his. Tongue in his mouth. He'd tried to protest but Jim had said darkly, "One more word and you won't survive." So he allowed his voice to die in his throat and Jim kissed him again, needily, _hungrily_, like the predator he was, and he led John down onto the bed, his tied hands caught awkwardly behind him.

"You see, Johnny boy, I need to get back what you took somehow," Jim murmured against his skin, his kisses haphazard against John's jaw, cheeks, neck, whatever they reached. "And I know you need this too."

John stared at him and Jim pulled back slightly just to laugh at him. "Oh _please_, honey, I know how you feel about dear old Sherrrrrlock. And how he doesn't seem to feel about you!" This last word was enthusiastically emphatic, and John swallowed, Jim's eyes darting to his throat at the motion. "I could," he continued in amusement, leaning close again and running one hand slowly up John's chest, "_FEEL_ the desperation oozing off of my monitors. You _LOVE _him, and he doesn't even want you." The 't' on want was exaggerated. "You need this as much as I need to hurt you."

"There's something wrong with you," John said, his voice very, very quiet.

Jim laughed, leaning back off the bed and pacing the space in front of it slightly. "Something wrong with me," he muttered with a grin, his head weaving slightly side to side, like a snake to music, as he put his fingers up to his hair as if he was going to rip it out. "Of course there's something WRONG with me, Johnny boy!" he yelled, turning back to the bed. He crawled back on to it suddenly, unexpectedly, startling John, and whispered urgently, like he was sharing a secret, "Oh, John, you of all people should understand that, there's something wrong with you too, something deep and dark and so deliciously DESPERATE hidden in you. I don't think Sherlock—or anyone really—understands how dangerous you really are, how _disturbed_." He smiled, leaning closer to John, who had nowhere to shrink back to and whose cobalt eyes were shifting from alarm into anger rapidly. "You're sicker than me, really. _Love_sick. But it's more than that, it's that desperation, that _need_," Jim continued, his features twisting up into an expression of hate. No, not hate, that wasn't quite it—was it _jealousy_? "That willingness to do anything for Sherlock, put his needs before yours, take care of him, _protect _him. You would rip out your own heart and give it to him if it would save him. It's siiiiiick!" These last two words were light and almost falsetto and he smiled again, one hand going to pop open the first button of John's shirt, his eyes as well as John's watching his hand work.

"And how is this going to fix me, then, if I'm broken?" John dared to ask after a breathless silence. Jim had unbuttoned a second button and now his hand paused on a third. He cocked his head to the side, pursing his lips as he considered the question.

"I'm hoping, Johnny boy, that I can turn you away from the _bor_-ing side. The good side," he said, looking at John again. "I can give you what Sherlock won't."

John's eyes were ice and steel. "I don't want that from you."

Jim smiled, sliding close to press his lips to John's cheek and then purr in his ear, "Oh, but you _will_."


	4. 21

**Hey guys! Sorry this chapter is so short, it's kind of just to tide you guys over until I finish chapter five, which will be a doozy since it picks up with Jim and John right where they left off. So I hope you enjoy this one, please review! Also, I'm still looking for people to rp Jim/John with, I swear I rp normal things, not always depressing things like this! Anyways, enjoy!**

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20 hostages. SIG Sauer P226 used. One set of fingerprints. No security camera footage. It wasn't John's gun, though. His fingerprints. Not his gun. His grocery store. Not his crime.

They were calling it PTSD. Saying he snapped and released all of his stored up violent energy. Happened to veterans. Emotionally fragile. Easily breakable.

But John was not easily breakable. He wouldn't do this, all of this evidence may have pointed to him, but he didn't do it. 20 hostages. SIG Sauer P226 used. Why didn't any of them run? One shot for each, the killer wasn't wasteful, each carefully aimed and placed to be fatal. Military training for sure, or at least a taste for killing. This wasn't like usual mass murders, this was very purposeful and well planned and the killer had intended to make it out _alive_. In fact, there had been no question that he was going to make it out alive.

John was missing. Suspicious for those with the PTSD theory, not really suspicious at all. He'd been taken against his will, that much was obvious, though there were no signs of any kind of struggle in the grocery store and it looked like the hostages had all corralled together like sheep to slaughter and let themselves be killed. Why hadn't they _run_? Human instinct told them to run, would have caused them to panic and flee, one man by himself couldn't have kept them all in place to shoot them down so meticulously. They were gathered. They were shot in one place. If they tried to run they didn't even make it a step. They would have run. Especially if they saw other hostages being shot next to them, there must have been a _reason_. It must have been a group of attackers, then, a fairly large group to keep all of the hostages in place and under control and they must have forced John to fire the gun. But John wouldn't kill an innocent unless he had no choice, he wouldn't do it even just to prevent his own death or harm. But they didn't want to kill him anyway, if they killed him this wouldn't be his fault or he wouldn't live to see what was going on, to see his life fall apart under accusation, and this crime had been meant to hurt, it was purposefully constructed to hurt both him and John. Whoever did this knew he would be on the case and assumed that hurting John would hurt him—which was true to some extent but was irrelevant to the matter at hand and could be considered further later—so they attacked both at once; frame John, take him away, and leave them both hurt, apart, worried. It was sadistic. Intended to destroy them both.

But there was no evidence. No matter how many times he shouted at them not to be stupid about it and look at the fact that none of the hostages had run, that the security footage had been disabled—a much too careful thing to do for someone who had left a _gun with fingerprints_ at the crime scene—that John had been perfectly fine that day and was of absolutely no danger to any civilian, they didn't listen. It didn't help when he said that if John were to actually do something like this he would have been much more careful and tactical about it, probably opting for a sniper's nest instead of a handgun at close range and doing such a meticulous job of it that even Sherlock would have had trouble figuring out it was him. John wasn't stupid, if he wanted to do something like this he wouldn't have done it like this. But he couldn't _prove _anything, at least not enough to exonerate John. The only reason the case hadn't been officially solved yet was because no one really _wanted _to believe John had done it. Lestrade hemmed and hawed and said that without John there, it was hard to prosecute anyway, and he was considered a missing persons case separately. When they found him they could charge him, if there were no breaks in the case.

_When_. When they found him. He had to find him. He _would _find him, he just had to think harder. He was missing something, he knew that, there must have been something else there that he hadn't picked up on. Well, no, he picked up on everything, but something he'd already considered and dismissed. He spent days at a time on the couch in the living room of the flat, three or more nicotine patches on his arm, nothing but his chest and eyes moving as he breathed and thought, his eyes darting about the ceiling above him as he considered and dismissed. Something had to be there.

The flat didn't feel right without John there. It felt empty, cold, lifeless. Most days he didn't eat and hardly drank anything or slept. Mrs. Hudson tried to fill the gaps but no one took care of him like John did. John. Irrelevant. Emotional responses were irrelevant when trying to solve the case. He had to look at facts. 20 hostages. Based on his theory, John would have been the 21st. 21. Winning hand in blackjack. Sum of the first six natural numbers. Smallest non-trivial Fibonacci number whose digits are Fibonacci numbers and whose sum is also a Fibonacci number. Legal drinking age in the United States. 21 trump cards in the tarot deck if one did not consider the Fool to be a proper trump card. 221B Baker Street. Someone was sending him a message. It could have easily been any other number, John could have been 22, 23, 19, 20, it didn't matter, but he had purposefully been put as number 21. He might not have seen why at the time, but Sherlock certainly did. And he was the one who had been meant to see it anyway. It was a message.

"_I'll burn the HEART out of you."_

Moriarty. Most likely. He had too many enemies to tell for certain right now, but the elaborate nature of the framed crime, the symbolism of the number, and the harm intended by framing John and then stealing him away all pointed in that direction. He had warned him, and still Sherlock hadn't listened. Stupid. Stupid stupid _stupid_! Now, because of his own hubris and idiocy, John was in danger. For once, he had no idea what was happening to John. No idea where he was, no leads either, and he had to know. He had to solve it before something terrible happened to him. No. Irrelevant. The case. 20 hostages dead. John was number 21. A message. John hadn't really been the target, though. Of the immediate situation, yes, but really this was directed at Sherlock. It was easier than going after him directly, the coward's way to hurt him. But really, this was just the easiest way to cause pain for him. Hurt John. God, he needed to smoke.

Mycroft had been no help. Eyes all over the city, and yet no one had seen John since the morning of the shooting. A popular grocery store, and yet no one had seen anything happen. People outside had heard shots fired and seen the flash of a gun, but no one had seen anyone come out afterwards. So how did they get John out? By force, obviously, he'd almost certainly been drugged and subdued somehow, most likely there was a car waiting already, but without footage there was no confirmation. Too many tire tracks outside the store to differentiate. This had been so perfectly planned, nearly a perfect frame, but there had to be a slip-up somewhere. Something. No sign from John since the crime, either. No sighting, not even a glimpse, but that didn't surprise him. Whoever took him didn't want him to be seen. He was probably locked away somewhere, most likely injured, possibly dead. No, not dead, that would present an end to the game and it would be too ordinary, too expected. Whoever had John wanted him alive because he was leverage, he was hope, he was the light at the end of the tunnel that would keep Sherlock hunting hungrily. If John was dead there was no reason to finish the investigation, no way to prove it wasn't him. It was over. And if he was right, if this _was_ Moriarty, then he certainly wouldn't kill John. He knew he had revealed too much to Moriarty at the pool, knew he'd revealed a weakness, and Moriarty would exploit it to its fullest. He did not believe in mercy. And Sherlock would afford him none if he found out he was the one responsible for this.


	5. General Adaptation Syndrome

**Author's Note: Hey guys, I'm so sorry it took me so long to do this chapter! I had AP tests and a bunch of other school work and there was just absolutely no time and then I really had trouble with it. So here it is, and hopefully it doesn't disappoint. Chapter six will be up much more quickly now that I actually have time to work on things. Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and follows, remember that reviews are love! Also, still looking for people to rp with. I also rp Johnlock and stuff, just let me know if you're interested. And in reference to the title of the chapter, for those of you who don't know, General Adaptation Syndrome is the process the body goes through when reacting to stress and occurs in three distince phases. Enjoy!**

* * *

_Alarm_

"I'm hoping, Johnny boy, that I can turn you away from the _bor_-ing side. The good side," he said, looking at John again. "I can give you what Sherlock won't."

John's eyes were ice and steel. "I don't want that from you."

Jim smiled, sliding close to press his lips to John's cheek and then purr in his ear, "Oh, but you _will_."

The man was insane. The thought that he would ever, _ever _want anything like that from Jim Moriarty of all people, that he was that desperate, that _needy_—

John's heart was beating out of his chest, strong enough in the close proximity that he knew Jim could feel it. This fear was confirmed as Jim pulled back to smirk at him and say, "Oh my, Johnny boy, did I get you _THAT_ startled? I was just having a bit of fuuuuun." The last word was a drawl, slow and emphatic, following Jim's movements as he carefully slung his leg over John to straddle his hips. Panic. John tried to scramble away and Jim easily pushed him down onto the bed with a lascivious smile.

"Dear John," Jim said, imitating an overly polite, feminine tone, "if you fight me, I'll have to kill Sherlock. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

"You can't," John said. The confidence in his voice matched his unwavering eyes. But there was a tremble underneath, a tremor starting in his soul and working its way up his spine into the base of his skull.

Jim didn't answer immediately, his eyes on his fingers as he began unbuttoning John's shirt again, each movement slow, deliberate. Calculated. Is this how Sherlock would undress him? With every move calculated to attain the maximum response? Like he was an equation to be solved? Add one variable—John—subtract another—clothes—and solve for x. Pleasure. Pain? He wouldn't know if there were any kinks lurking underneath the detective's put-together exterior. "I can. I could've _aaaaaaages _ago but where's the fun in that?" Jim asked. He was almost finished unbuttoning John's shirt and John thought he wasn't going to be able to breathe if he went much further. His fear in the army had been nothing compared to this. This was pure terror. "But I don't really have to threaten or coerce." He threw 'threaten' and 'coerce' out of his mouth like they were inconsequential words, unimportant concepts. He sounded bored. "I _want_ you, John. Not because you're an enemy, not because I know you hate me, not because you're Sherlock's, but just because you're YOU. I want you in that sinful way that Sherlock can never manage, that you're dying to have with him. So you're going to fuck me—" here he slid closer, the hand not unbuttoning John's shirt sliding up John's thigh as John bristled "—not because I'm forcing you too, but because you need to be wanted. And I so, so want you."

He smiled, and John could have sworn there was venom dripping from his teeth. He could have easily been a dragon, in another life. No, John, back to reality. Jim wasn't a wolf or a dragon, he was just a man, and men could be hurt.

"You don't want me," John insisted. "You're obsessed with Sherlock. You've been after _Sherlock_, for God's sake you turn each other on with your intelligence, that's not—that's not what you could get from me." There was a thin thread of panic winding itself through his voice and his chest felt tight. Fight or flight response. He couldn't manage either.

Jim laughed and John nearly shivered at the sound. He sounded positively _maniacal. _Maniacal, maniac, mania—state of abnormally elevated or irritable mood, arousal, and/or energy levels—god his head was spinning around in circles and he could feel the signs of hysteria setting in. Jim could see it too, leaning in close to him with a snakelike smoothness. John wondered for one hysterical moment if he would flick a forked tongue out to lick his lips. Instead, he felt the last buttons of his shirt pop open and Jim said, his voice dropped lower than usual, a hint of a purr present, "Ohhh, _Johnny boy_. That's where you're wrong. So, so wrong. You can give me _sooo _much more than Sherlock can." He waved a hand around, revolving it around his wrist loosely as if searching for the right words. "Sherly's a distraction. He's boring, in the end, utterly predictable. Do you know what he's doing right now?" He was grinning again, like a shark, and John shook his head just slightly. "He's _worrying _about you. About you! You, the or-din-ar-y one," Jim said, punctuating each syllable of ordinary with a kiss against John's jaw. The kisses weren't gentle, or even really kisses; it felt like Jim was attacking him with his lips. John had started shivering violently on the bed, his adrenaline unable to vent itself in either a fight or flight response. His arms, still caught underneath him, were starting to ache. "And why should he do that? You're ordinary, you're boring, you're _NOTHING _compared to me and him." John almost flinched at the way 'nothing' was flung at him, Jim's face twisting up into that hate—jealousy—that frightened him. "And yet..." John gasped as Jim undid his belt and trousers, hand reaching below the waistband of his pants and touching something vital.

"N-no," he managed to stammer out, but his breath and protests hitched at the same moment his hips did, Jim's hand beginning to move in a sinfully slow manner. "Nonononononono Jim, no!"

"I'm not Jim anymore, Johnny dear, don't you remember? I'm Sher-_lock_." Lips sliding up his neck, one hand on the bare skin of his chest, the other in his pants and _moving_, goddamnit he wasn't going to pant for Jim of all people—Jim's voice dropped, straight into an imitation of Sherlock's baritone and John's stomach dropped along with it as Jim said, "'Now, _John_. From the flush in your cheeks, the elevated heart rate, and how stiff you're going beneath my hand, I may deduce that you're becoming aroused by me.'" The next voice was an imitation of John, although high pitched and feminine enough to make John's skin crawl. "'Oh yes, Sherlock, please, please take me on this bed, I've been wanting you for so long and you're _sooo_ brilliant and handsome and wonderful!'" Jim's voice squeaked on the last word and he started giggling.

"Sod. Off," John said through gritted teeth. His jaw was clenched so tightly he thought he might crack his teeth, a steel trap meant to catch any stray noises that make try to make it through. And so many were trying their hardest right now. _Surrender_. He shut that thought down immediately even as his brain and body tried to mutiny and wave the white flag. Surrender wasn't possible, not in real war and certainly not in this one. So he'd fight him. He'd fight Jim.

_Resistance_

"Oh, but _whyyy_, Johnny dearest? We're having so much fun here," Jim said, his voice lifting on 'fun'. He seemed sincerely pleased with himself, enjoying the situation, and John couldn't fail to notice Jim's tented trousers. God. God, this was really going to happen. Jim Moriarty was really going to have him on this bed. And at the moment, with Jim's hand down his trousers, he really didn't mind that thought.

John tried to heave himself away, the sickly hot lurch of pain in his shoulders and arms nothing compared to the nausea in his stomach at the thought of willingly giving in to Jim. Letting Jim touch him. Giving Jim the satisfaction of winning. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Sherlock would—

"Sherlock's not here, John," Jim murmured as if he'd read his mind, lips against John's collarbone. His tongue was slick and wet and hot as it traced along the bone. He was shivering. John was fucking shivering, and he couldn't blame the adrenaline this time. He closed his eyes. "He'll never know, will he? Because _you'll _never tell him, and he doesn't want to talk to little old _meeeeeeee_." The last word was high and lilting, and followed by a giggle. "Although he's dy-ing to know where I'm keeping you. Ooh, and what would he say if he saw you right now? I _won_-der, Johnny boy, if he's ever thought about you like this, flustered and panting and half-naked on the sheets. Because he's certainly never seen you like this." There was an obvious layer of amusement in Jim's voice, thick and nearly derisive. It was grating to John. Then again, he was having trouble concentrating when Jim was very, very slowly stroking him and every ounce of his willpower was going into making sure he didn't let any noise slip. "The virgin and 'Three Continents Watson'." Jim was giggling wildly now, and John wondered in a somewhat distant haze where he had heard the nickname. Well, he'd admitted to monitoring the flat before, maybe Sherlock had said it sometime, no doubt with scorn in his voice—John's eyes snapped open with a slight gasp. _Sherlock_. What would Sherlock think? If he saw him panting for Jim, moaning—because that had been a half choked moan that had just come from his lips, he couldn't deny it anymore—what expression would he make, what thoughts would cross his mind, what emotions would he experience? He nearly snorted. Like Sherlock experienced emotions. Wasn't that his problem? The reason John couldn't have him? But still. Even if Sherlock didn't want him, he couldn't give in to Jim.  
"No," he croaked, his throat thick and dry. There was a pause in Jim's movements. A breathless silence.

Then, a gentle kiss to the hollow of his throat. "No, Johnny boy?" A voice that sounded as sweet as sugar. John couldn't breathe. "No, what?"

"I don't want this." The words were hard to get out, sticking in his throat which already felt raw from barely restrained hysteria. "I don't want you. Sherlock, yes, but not you. Because you're not him, and you never will be to me."

Silence hung as delicately as dew on a spider's web. Appropriate, since Jim was the most dangerous spider John had ever met. One silken thread from his web for Sherlock, another for John…maybe several for John, at the moment. At least enough to keep him in place for long enough to kill him.

But after a few tense minutes in which John was certain he was going to be murdered in Jim Moriarty's bed, Jim abruptly stood up, smoothing the front of his suit down. John stared up at him, half-hard and slightly dazed. Disturbed, in general.

"Then I'll wait," Jim said, and that predatory shark's smile was back. He put his hands in his pockets as if he wasn't tenting the front of his trousers, as if he hadn't just had his hand down John's trousers and pants, as if he wasn't absolutely furious right now. John realized with a twist of his stomach that he was getting to know Jim's moods. Intimately. Christ, and he missed Jim's hand as soon as it was gone, there really was something wrong with him.

Jim smiled at John's look of absolute confusion, that same pleased smirk he had whenever he managed to surprise him. Which was often. "I want you to come to me _willingly_, John. I want you to truly _BELIEVE _that I'm him, and want me for that reason and that alone. So I'll wait." It was one of his more normal tones, the one he hardly ever used. Like he was a regular person, having a regular conversation, and not a crazed psychopathic kidnapper talking to the man he was trying to lead into delusion.

John continued to stare at him, acutely aware that his mouth was slightly open. Also acutely aware that Jim's eyes were occasionally flicking down to his lips. And that Jim was still probably painfully aroused. He shrank back on the bed when Jim strode back over to him but the man simply undid the restraints on his wrists, allowing his arms and shoulders a much needed reprieve. They burned when he moved them, but at least they could move. And Jim was letting him go, right? Off the hook? John would have laughed if he was sure he could stop it from turning into a sob. No, this was temporary. He was still in the personal flat of an absolute monster, still at his mercy and being blamed for a horrible crime. What did it matter if his arms could move?

But he was getting off oh so lightly, he knew that as soon as he looked into Jim's dark eyes and saw the absolute sheer fury barely contained there. Madness. Desperation. _Desire_. Jesus Christ he'd been close to hate fucking and then murdering him, hadn't he? And still was, actually. Jim smiled, seeming to know John was realizing exactly how much danger he'd been in.

"Stay," he commanded, his confident tone making it obvious that he expected nothing else from John, and then went into the bathroom attached to the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

_Exhaustion_

John remained frozen on the bed for a minute, the sounds of a shower starting in the bathroom. Then, slowly, he began to move his arms. One shoulder rolled—a wince from him now that Jim was gone—then the other. He started flexing his fingers, trying to regain some feeling in them. After a minute of this, he tried moving his arms and hissed. God that hurt. Centimeter by centimeter, though, he moved them, the pain slowly subsiding to a dull ache. He wanted to go look for ibuprofen or something in the rest of Jim's flat, just to ease the pain, but Jim had told him to stay and he was afraid of the consequences if he disobeyed. He was afraid of Jim, in general.

"Ohhhh, _John_—!"

John jerked bolt upright on the bed, his spine stiff and straight. His breathing sounded far too loud in the sudden careful silence, his entire body at attention.

"_Johnyyyy_!"

No, he hadn't hallucinated that. Jim Moriarty was, as near as he could tell, having a wank about him. The floor came up to meet him a lot faster than it should have and John distantly realized that he'd actually fallen off the bed and failed to catch himself in time. He didn't move for a minute, either. Just let himself lie on the carpet and try to ignore the sounds coming from the bathroom. It was entirely possible that Jim was just messing with him, just acting to shake him up, but John knew that wasn't true. He'd seen how aroused Jim was. He'd seen that absolute stark naked lust in the man's eyes when he'd pulled away from him. Jim had even said, quite plainly, that he wanted John badly. So it was entirely possible that he was really having a wank about him right now. He was so damn tired, he didn't even have the energy to care about this right now. How upset would Jim be if he just crawled into bed? Technically he was still obeying the command to stay, he was just letting himself sleep. Sleep. In Jim's bed. After what had just happened. God, when had this become his life?

His arms burned when he pushed himself to his hands and knees, but he was too tired to care. They burned more, anyway, when he crawled back onto the bed and then under the covers, having kicked off his shoes. He snuggled up under the lovely, heavy comforter, and sank down into the soft bed with a bone aching weariness he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Jim could do what he liked. Hell, Jim might come out of the bathroom and kill him, he didn't care at the moment. He just wanted to sleep.

So he did. And then woke up for a few hazy minutes when Jim came to bed, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, and whispered, "Sweet dreams, love" before kissing his cheek. He made a noise of sleepy discontent at being woken and settled back in Jim's arms, hardly remembering who he was with. A warm pair of arms was a warm pair of arms, and although these arms belonged to the most dangerous man he'd ever met, they were still comfortable. Warm. Inviting. Almost safe. And God did it feel good to be wanted.


End file.
